


A Medley of Sansan

by MissMallora (orphan_account)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, It's a thing now, Pre-Relationship, Sandor is a producer, Sansa is a diva in the making, Westerosi Idol, give me the sansan prompts, prompt collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:11:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MissMallora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 1: RnB singer!Sansa and the ruthless producer!Hound.</p>
<p>"It’s not expressly banned. He tells himself that a thousand and one times on his way down to the auditorium, mentally preparing to be hounded by the cameras (no pun intended)."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Medley of Sansan

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to "noname" reviewer from GUN. "Noname," if you're reading, this one's for you! Dunno if it's what you wanted, but it's all I got, for now. (Can you believe I wrote this in one sitting?)
> 
> Song and chapter title taken from Alessia Cara's "Here." I recommend listening to it, if you wanna get "the full experience".
> 
> Ciao, darlings! 
> 
> PS, I did not edit this. Not even once. I LIVE ON THE EDGE. So...you know...prepare for spelling mistakes and such. Oops!

 

_I guess you got the last laugh…_

* * *

 

It’s not expressly banned. He tells himself that a thousand and one times on his way down to the auditorium, mentally preparing to be _hounded_ by the cameras recording for behind-the-scene edits for the show (no pun intended), prepared to be confronted by her fucking _nosy_ mentor.

It’s early in the day still, but the crew is in a mad frenzy to get everything ready for the show tonight. He steps overs multiple wires and cords connecting this mic to that sound system and that camera to that TV and so many it makes his head spin. His assistant (a glorified term he coined for his lackey) presses a coffee into his hand that’s no doubt doused in Bailey’s (the only alcohol he’s managed to sneak on set before).

It’s a _massive_ auditorium. The show’s spared no expense this year, and why would they? Westerosi Idol has been a massive success. Last year they founded that cunt, Joffrey Baratheon, who all the tweens loved, but who seemed to be having difficulty staying famous rather than _in_ famous. The year before that, it was Dany. The Dragon Mother had been a true performer and star in her own right, but lately she’s been seen making more political and activist moves than show-stopping performances. The show eats it up, of course ( _Dany’s a true inspiration, blessed with talent and a good heart, walks through fire, blahblahblah)._ But Sandor knows from talking to the executive producer that what they _really_ want is a performer this year. Not an addict. Not an activist. An _artist._ A star.

Sandor’s hell-bent on finding one.

He isn’t normally so dedicated to his job. It’s a fucking phenomenal paycheck, and the publicity is great for the studio he owns. But really, he never gave a shit about the starlet wannabes who came in and out of the limelight as frequently as the sun sets and rises. None of them were worth anything. None of them impressed him. He’s signed his share of talent, and any of them could wipe the floor with these little shits.

He’s earned a rep, sure. Few can withstand the Hound’s final judgment, as the tabloids call it. But hey, it’s not him that’s awful. It’s the world they live in. Dog eat dog, and all that shit.

Still, he’s sent more contestants off stage in tears than all of the judges combined. His rep as a bastard is more than well-deserved.

Sandor sips at his coffee, sitting in the back of the auditorium. He’d adamantly deny the fact that he’s _hiding,_ but it’s not exactly a lie to say he has no wish to be spotted by any of the enemies’ eyes.

_The_ enemy, of course, being his rival mentor.

Margaery fucking Tyrell.

The Rose of Highgarden. She’s beautiful, that Margie, but he has no qualms to admitting he avoids her as much as humanly possible. She’s too perfect, always. She’s too composed, too simpering, too polite to be sincere. Her catlike smile sends shivers down his spine, the same way nails on a chalkboard might. He and Margaery could have the same opinion about a contestant (and they often did) but Margie always had a knack for delivering the final blow with rose petals rather than a mailed fist, like he did.

There’s four judges on the panel for Westerosi Idol. He and Margie are easily the two most successful, for opposite reasons. The producers of the show kept her around for eye-candy. And they certainly didn’t keep the Hound on the show for that reason. But Sandor was tough and honest and shred big egos into scraps of paper in no time, and people like seeing that almost more than they like to see a major success.

Then there’s Jorah Mormont, who used to play in a successful band when he was much, _much_ younger (Sandor likes to emphasise the _younger_ parts. It’s not secret the man has a hard-on for sweet and strong Dany, and it’s creeped the ever-living-fuck out of Sandor from the moment he realized). Jorah’s not an idiot, but he tends to favor the beautiful too much, puts emphasis on _stage presence_ and _the look._ What he really means is, _you’re thin and beautiful and you’ll sell a shit-ton of records._

It might be true, but Sandor hates the logic all the same.

The last judge is Oberyn Martell.

Sandor hates Oberyn Martell.

The man is cunning, make no mistake. He can spot a hit a mile away, with the sort of snakelike intellect he’s famed for. He’s a singer, an old jazz crooner that old and young women alike line up to catch a glimpse of (not that Sandor doesn’t have a strange, smaller group of dedicated female fans who have taken an odd shine to the scarred, serious record producer). Besides having eight daughters to _five_ different women, Oberyn’s also famous for his deadly temper and his progressive stance on equality in the industry. Oberyn smiles through every single performance and often makes an equal amount of compliments and kind suggestions before sending them on their way (Joffrey’s time on stage had been a rare exception. Oberyn had taken a strong dislike for the arrogant boy, often calling him out on his shitty behavior and disrespectful attitude to the judges).

Sandor’s dislike of the man doesn’t stem from any reasons one might expect. He doesn’t care about the multitude of women. He doesn’t care about the fiery temper of the man, nor does he care that the man’s a feminist with a foot on both sides of the playing field, if you catch Sandor’s drift. What really pisses Sandor off is _that smile._ That fucking smile, so polite, so attentive. It’s not as bad as Margie—if the performance was bad, he’s sure to let them know it by the end—but the pretense alone is enough to warrant Sandor’s disapproval. The minimum age on Westerosi Idol is eighteen. Legal adult. If they’re coming on as adults, Sandor’s going to _treat_ them like an adult.

He doesn’t fall for the sob story. He doesn’t care if you lost your home and your mother died and your cat has three legs. He doesn’t give a fuck if you started from the bottom of the barrel and coming onto this show is your one last shot before you lose everything. Tough shit—that’s life.

He cares about talent. He cares about the way the audience sounds after the final note. He cares about the number of CDs flying off the shelves. He cares about the air time a single gets. He cares about sold-out concerts and guest appearances on TV talk shows and shitty good-will gestures made and charity events attended and all that sort of shit, because you know why?

No, it’s not money. What Sandor cares about more than anything else isn’t _money._ What he cares about it platinum. Double platinum. Diamond. Triple-fucking-platinum albums. Anything to prove that he’s signed the best, that his artists are the best, and that Sandor Clegane _doesn’t fuck around._

He does it because he likes being the best in his industry.

Which is why, deep down, he’s currently sitting in on the dry-run performance of a contestant being mentored by _another_ judge—Margaery Tyrell, of all the judges—sitting in the back of the theater with his head not-quite-tucked into his broad chest as he drinks his coffee and waits, impatiently, for the number to begin.

There’s a pause, the stage is dark, and then a white spotlight hits the center stage, a few inches shy of the singer.

“Wait!” he hears Margaery holler. The singer, dressed in black leggings and a navy blue sweater that slips off the shoulder just enough to drive any man wild, stands perfectly still as Margaery gives directions to the lighting crew.

Sure enough, the light’s adjusted, the spotlight glows on the singer’s face, and all the world—the crew, the cords, Margery and all—disappears into nothingness.

There’s only _her_.

She’s using the backup track for her practice run, a dangerous choice, but it does the job well enough. He doesn’t doubt Margaery’s had her practice with the live band several dozen times by now. A liar she may be, a fool she is not.

It’s slow at first, the ticking of a clock, the tinkling keys of a piano. He knows the song at once. _Damn._ It’s a smart choice on Margaery’s part. Not too sexual, not too cutesy. Definitely sultry. Definitely crooning. (Oberyn will love it).

Her red hair is left down, as he suspects it’ll be for the show tonight as well. She’s draped the curls over her shoulder, her hands curled gingerly over the mic as she pulls and presses it to and fro with the curling lilt of her voice.

Her _voice_. It’s unique. It’s strong, too, but that doesn’t always guarantee a win. More importantly, it’s memorable, a croon-like quality that could only come naturally. It ebbs and flows, without any direction from Margaery at all. She’s got the art of seducing her microphone down to a science, and it’s gripped many men watching from home up until this night. For this will be her first live show, and it’s got to be goddamned good. It _has_ to be. There’s no room for error here.

Luckily for her, Sansa Stark makes no mistakes when it comes to singing.

_“I'm sorry if I seem uninterested. Oh I'm not listenin', oh I'm indifferent.”_ His thoughts wander. He can see her in his mind, later tonight, dolled up in whatever sequined black dress Margaery picks out for her, heavy smoky eye makeup she doesn’t need, but will put to good use all the same. She’ll wear stilettos, ones that aren’t _too_ crazy. Probably some gaudy necklace too. If there’s one thing Margaery does well, it’s put on a show.

But Sansa doesn’t need it. She doesn’t need all the fixings. She might be the first ever singer he’s ever thought that for, but it’s true. The lighting, the dry ice, the sultry smile Margaery teaches her (because she certainly didn’t come that way to the auditions).

She doesn’t need any of it. And Sandor wishes to God that she’d been given under his mentorship instead of Margaery Tyrell’s, who’s only going to ruin her.

_“I don’t dance, don’t ask, I don’t need a boyfriend. So you can go back, please enjoy your party. I’ll be here…”_

“Sandor?”

He only barely refrained from leaping out of his seat, glaring up at the damnable catlike smile he knows so well.

“Shouldn’t you be watching your pupil?”

Margaery raises her penciled eyebrows, smiling widely, teasingly. “I don’t know, you seem to be doing a pretty good job of that so far.”

“Piss off.”

She sits next to him with one seat between them, smiling all the while, and it’s all he can do not to leap up and storm off. But that’d only make things worse. It’s best to pretend he doesn’t care, best to pretend he’s hiding nothing rather than make a scene.

It’s hard, though, when Margaery starts talking. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

He grunts, unwilling to expound on her words, or his answer.

She takes it in stride though, as she always does, and leans over conspiringly to him. “I think she might win it this year. If she plays her cards right…”

“You mean if _you_ play her cards right.”

Margaery stifled a put-on giggle, shaking her head at him in amusement. “Oh! You’re wicked. And what are you doing here, anyways, watching _my_ contestants? Shouldn’t you be prepping your own talents?”

He grunts again, this time from annoyance. His contestants, the six of them, are nothing but a bunch of pompous shits who can’t take direction. He’s broken down a few of them with some well-aimed metaphorical punches, but two of them are stubborn. He half-thinks that he’ll have to start throwing real punches soon.

(Wonder what his contract says about assaulting contestants…)

They stop for a moment to listen to Sansa singing (or rather, Margaery stops to let him listen).

_“I ask myself, what am I doing here? Oh-oh-oh here, oh-oh-oh here…”_

“You can say it. I totally nailed song selection.” He can hear the smug smile in her voice.

“Whatever, Margaery.”

She picks at her nails for a second, mulling. “What’d you chose for Renly?”

“Renly? What, you fancy him?”

She smiled a bit to herself, shaking her head. “No. I’m asking for someone else, really. I hope you gave him a good one.”

He frowned. Renly would be singing The Eagles ( _not_ Hotel California, F.Y.I.). He was set to sing Desperado, one of Sandor’s personal favorites. He supposed if he had to pick one of his own contestants to win, it’d be Renly (but he still doesn’t think he’ll do it).

“It’s a great song,” he grumbles defensively. It _is_ a fucking great song. The best one, actually.

Sandor’s irritation grows by the second, and not only because he feels stupid sitting here, gossiping with the Rose of Highgarden. No, he’s increasingly frustrated with Margaery’s spontaneity, her ability to pick the worst time to mingle. He couldn’t focus on Sansa at all with her yapping in his ear (and he realizes then that perhaps that was the whole point).

Sansa builds to the final verse, her body straining with her emotions, visible even at the distance he sits at.

_“I'm stand-offish, don't want what you're offerin'. And I'm done talkin', awfully sad it had to be that way. So tell my people when they're ready that I'm ready. And I'm standin' by the TV with my beanie low. Yo I'll be over here.”_

There’s more build than in the original version, but this is a competition after all. Sandor listens, rapt with her skill, with her prowess, her natural god-given abilities. Her voice, more rich and soulful than it likely has any right to be, entices him the way a pole-dancer might attract fifty year-old divorced men.

He’s a moth to her flame.

And it’s been a _long_ time since he last showed interest in fire.

“See you at the show,” Margaery says in his ear, and before he can respond, she’s up and left, clapping as she makes her way down the stairs and to the stage. Sansa’s there, the song over, and she’s smiling nervously, excitedly, a bit fearfully. But Margaery’s gushing can be heard from up where Sandor sits, thinking, mulling.

Sansa Stark is talented. He knew that the moment she sang the first note of Roberta Bondar’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” He knew it even a bit before, when she had stepped into the audition room and bobbed her head shyly at them, blushing and smiling with all the twittering nerves of a little bird.

A little bird who can sing _very_ well.

_But fucking Margaery is your mentor,_ he thinks with a scowl. Margaery could ruin her by the end of the season. Turn her into every other popstar on the market right now. It’s something that’s kept him awake at night, imagining all the ways she might strip her of her singularity, replace it with the run-of-the-mill glamourous look all twenty year-old divas share. It _bothers_ him, dammit, almost as much as the thought of never signing Sansa Stark bothers him.

It’s a selfish thought, but he doesn’t really want the girl to win. If she wins Westerosi Idol, she’ll get a year-long contract with their studio and produce either a cookie-cutter bullshit image they force on her to make up for Joffrey’s rebellious reputation, or else strip her into bralettes and lace garters, make her pose naked for countless rags and sell her as an “adult” artist.

No, nothing good will come of her winning. But he wants her to do well, anyways. Well enough to boost her confidence, enough to leave a lasting impression with the fickle viewers of this shitty show.

And then he wants her to _lose_. He wants her free of any obligations to other studios, free of any obligation to Westerosi Idol and Margaery Tyrell, wants her to _himself_.

Sandor Clegane will be here. Sandor Clegane will be waiting, ready to snatch her up in his paws when the time comes.

Come hell or high water, he’ll have that songstress at his studio. He’ll have that little bird’s contract, if it’s the last artist he ever signs.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> UGH, so the last thing I need is more Sansan ideas to tackle, but I love oneshots! I love prompts! Send me any sansan desires that have been so far unfulfilled, and I may try it out myself! (No promises on timeliness, tho....) 
> 
> Thanks to all support and love. *hugs you all* Take care, darlings!
> 
> Love  
> MissM.
> 
> PS, I know Sandor sounded kinda...rapey? at the end, but like...he wants to sign Sansa's contract the same way you would want to be JK Rowling's publisher, or GRRM's, or Tolkien's, or whatever. Ja feel? IT'S NOT CREEPY, I SWEAR.


End file.
